


Isolation or Loss (and ways it’s dealt with)

by TheManOfManyFandoms



Series: DreamSMP Angst and Comfort [11]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Assisted Suicide, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Murder, Funerals, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heart Attacks, Heavy Angst, Hurt Alexis | Quackity, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Mild Gore, No Dialogue, Phil Watson Tries (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Cara | CaptainPuffy, Sad Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Sam | Awesamdude, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Suicidal Thoughts, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManOfManyFandoms/pseuds/TheManOfManyFandoms
Summary: On the manner of Wilbur, Schlatt, and Tommy’s deaths and the grief of the people who cared for them.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: DreamSMP Angst and Comfort [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052576
Comments: 32
Kudos: 166





	Isolation or Loss (and ways it’s dealt with)

**Author's Note:**

> TWs should all be in the tags, let me know if I missed any :]
> 
> I cried while writing this. Enjoy :)

Schlatt died as a direct consequence of his own actions. He was cruel to those who cared for him and valued power over people. And so, he died alone and friendless. He was a drunkard and a mean one, at that. It was almost fitting that the very thing that instigated many of his fits of anger and cruelty, should be the thing to kill him. 

He had had everything he ever wanted. He had had supportive followers, a husband, even the presidency of a great nation. And he, himself, ruined it all. He made bad decision after bad decision and it (eventually, inevitably, inescapably) caught up to him. He had ruled with fear (and fear alone) and, soon enough, he lost the respect and trust of his supporters. 

He treated his husband like a pretty accessory; something that could be used to make a good impression before being torn off and thrown into a corner of a bedroom. He treated him like an ornament that is used once in a blue moon and then stuffed back to the bottom of a dusty, old box in the attic. And, oh, how his husband wanted to believe that he was loved. And, perhaps, Schlatt _had_ loved him, at first, but those days (if they ever existed, in the first place) were long past.

Schlatt allowed his country to fall to ruin and disrepair. Firework scars adorned the wooden structures that looked so much older than they were. Part of the White House was blown to pieces and never repaired. That section was half-heartedly blocked off and everything that was salvageable was simply moved to other rooms. Vines and weeds overgrew the plaza that hadn’t been touched since the massacre.

Schlatt never made an effort to repair relationships, or buildings, or his own failing heart. So, it was almost inevitable that people should stop believing in him. That people should stop bothering to try and make things better. And they did. One, by one, by one, by one. They were gone.

Schlatt died surrounded by people and yet so, utterly alone. He clutched at his chest, choking and coughing. Everybody just stared. Nobody offered the help that he didn’t deserve. Nobody held out a hand and told the pretty lies they always murmur to the dying in stories. Schlatt supposed, distantly, that he didn’t deserve any such comfort anyway. 

He didn’t have a sudden moment of enlightened guilt, as he exited the mortal realm. He merely breathed a last, shuddering breath and faded out of existence.

* * *

Schlatt’s funeral wasn’t widely attended. It was only those who had been members of Schlatt’s cabinet, really. Tommy came with Tubbo, as a sort of moral support. Tubbo gave a small, politely cold speech to the group. He still trembled, when he had to climb the steps of a podium. 

Fundy refused to speak. Everyone present knew of his lingering guilt at having supported Schlatt for so long. Most everyone forgave him completely. Tommy still looked at him with a hint of something like distrust. It was no secret that he believed Fundy to be partially responsible for the downfall of another president.

Quackity gave a shaky, strained speech. He had many feelings about Schlatt; some good, most bad. By the end of the speech, he was laughing so hard he could barely breath. It took him a moment to realize that the emotion making his shoulders shake was grief, not amusement. It took another moment to realize that the hot, wet liquid on his face was tears.   
  
He sank down onto the cold grass, still damp with morning dew. and stared down at it, as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He didn’t (couldn’t) watch. He had seen the man’s body already. It looked so much smaller than it had in life. It didn’t look frightening, or intimidating anymore. It just looked like a man who had taken every wrong path without looking back. Quackity picked at blades of grass and stubbornly ignored the tears rolling down his face. If he didn’t let himself feel, it wouldn’t hurt.

He ignored Tubbo rubbing his back consolingly. He ignored Fundy squeezing his shoulder apologetically. He ignored Tommy giving him an awkward, conciliatory pat on the top of the head. He ignored the ache in his heart, as he got up and went about his day. He ignored the logical part of himself, that said he should be relieved.

Nobody else cared. Quackity knew that. And he knew that _he_ shouldn’t care either. He knew that the way Schlatt had treated him wasn’t right, or okay. He knew that he should hate the man. Should hate him for every broken bottle and every black eye. Should hate him for causing sprained wrists and broken fingers. He knew all of this. He also knew that his feelings were much more complicated than that.

* * *

Wlbur, for all appearances, went out in a blaze of glory. That certainly was the image he wanted to be projected to the world. That was the way, with Wilbur. He wanted to be perceived as larger than life, dramatic, _important_. He desperately wanted everyone to see the importance that he could never quite see in himself.

When he was a child, he would fight so hard to prove himself just as important and worthwhile as his twin brother. He could never quite manage to he proficient with a sword, so he crafted his own deadly weapons with pen and ink. He could never be as strong as Technoblade; or as brave as Tommy; or as smart as Tubbo. So, he forged his own path in life.

When Philza would brush him off, in favor of Techno, he would sit in his room and dream of big plans and all of the amazing things he would do to impress Phil, in the end. He achieved them, briefly, and those few months after the first war were some of the best of his life.

Sure, he still could never get Phil to respond to his letters, but that wasn’t important. Not anymore. That, at least, was what he told himself on the long, lonely nights, when he wondered if it was all worth it.

And then everything was taken away from him at once and he spiralled. He stopped loving the country he had founde. He stopped caring about the kids he had practically raised. He even stopped taking care of _himself_.

Wilbur dug his own grave, in the end, one stick of dynamite at a time. He put one foot in, when he laughed, as his little brother looked at him with terrified, betrayed eyes. He stepped in completely, when he rigged a nation to be blown to smithereens. He layed down, in his personal pit of dark despair, when he pressed a simple, wooden button and destroyed everything that he and his brothers had fought for.

He begged his father to kill him, shoving a sword into his hands. He pleaded, he laughed, he cried. He didn't want to live in the world that he had helped to ruin. In the end, he grabbed Phil’s arm to keep it steady and threw all his weight onto the sword. Phil didn’t fight it much. The wound hurt and there was so much blood, staining his shirt and Phil’s hands, but all Wilbur could feel was relief.

He sunk to the floor; steadied by a crying Philza. Wilbur wondered if his father might finally be proud of him. He doubted it, but he asked anyway, with some of his last, gasping breaths. Phil just shook his head, shutting his eyes and cradling Wilbur in two bloody, shaking arms.

Wilbur Soot died with a bitter smile on his face and a feeling of relief in his heart. He hadn't gone out in a noble blaze of glory. He had died, as he had lived: a scared young man, desperate for a father's approval that he would never receive.

* * *

Wilbur was buried; universally hated and, yet, loved by so many. Two members of the family were missing at that funeral. One was the dead man in the coffin. The other was a traitor, a betrayer, a deserter, a terrorist. Tommy hated them both equally. How dare they destroy his country? How dare they leave him? How dare _Wilbur_ leave him; one of the only people who had promised to never go away. And now he was in the one place where Tommy couldn’t follow.

The speech he gave was full of hatred and love; vitriol and grief. He didn’t cry, while he spoke. He did, however, give Phil a cold look, as he gazed down at the crowd. Phil was crying. He didn’t deserve to cry. Not after what he had done. He had explained it all: how Wilbur had asked to be killed, how he had thrown himself on the sword, how Phil hadn’t done a thing to stop it.

What had _happened_ to their family? The only one that was even recognizable, after all this time, was Tommy, himself. Techno was cold-hearted and cruel. Phil barely cared about any of them anymore. Tubbo had grown serious and it was rare to get even a smile from him anymore. Wilbur was dead.

But, before that, Wilbur had still cared. He had to have. Because if _Wilbur_ didn’t care about Tommy than nobody did. Tommy frequently repressed many of the darker memories of his older brother. He pushed down the thoughts of too-tight grips and harsh, cold words. Tubbo told him that it was unhealthy. Tommy didn’t care.

Because if Wilbur didn’t love him, than their family had been fucked from the start. Maybe they hadn’t changed much after all. Maybe Techno had _always_ thought of Tommy as a fly on his shoe. Maybe Phil had always thought of three of his children as burdens and wastes of time. Maybe Tubbo had never enjoyed causing chaos, with Tommy. Maybe Tommy was just the family waste of space.

Regardless of whether or not Wilbur had ever cared, he was dead now. He was dead and there was nothing that Tommy could do about it. That particular ache in his heart never left.

* * *

Tommy died alone and terrified. He had been told for so long that, should he die, he would die a hero. It was unthinkable, to anyone who knew him, that he could ever go out without his head held high. That he could ever go out without taking his enemy down with him. Tommy, himself, had only ever imagined one other possibility. Towers that stretched towards the clouds haunted his nightmares.

Tommy was something of an enigma, in life. Most people tended to consider him as nothing more than an annoying child. An unfortunate addition that you got, when becoming friends with Tubbo, or Wilbur. To an extent, of course, Tommy behaved exactly as they all expected. He was loud, rude, brash, impulsive. He was all of these things, but he was so much more.

Those closest to him knew that he was also kind and understanding and, once he decided to care about someone, he would love them with his entire being. It took a lot to earn his trust, this becoming more and more true over time. Too many people had thrown him aside, when he wasn’t useful anymore. Too many times, he had opened his heart to people, only for them to use it against him.

Phil had severed their relationship when Tommy had still been no more than a young child. Wilbur had treated him as a pawn, as a tool, as something to be used and thrown aside. Technoblade had allowed his own victim complex get in the way of ever repairing their relationship. Even Tubbo, who Tommy had forgiven long ago, had forgotten, once, that Tommy was more than just a liability. And then there was Dream.

Dream, who whispered honeyed words into Tommy’s ears one moment and, the next, shouted poisonous words of hatred. Dream, who toyed with Tommy’s emotions and turned his thoughts inside out, with harsh words and harsher fists and then smoothed them back into place, with deceitful caresses and words of praise and encouragement. Dream, who played with Tommy, like a child would play with their favorite toy.

Tommy was used and broken and thrown away to rot, more times than he could count. Yet, even after everything, he still managed to open his heart and soul to people. Slowly, he had learned how to, once again, trust Tubbo more than anyone else. It took time, but he, eventually, opened up to Sam and Puffy, as well.

Tubbo, who no longer put his country before Tommy and was, once again, Tommy’s greatest confidant. Sam, who was so gentle and kind to him, even when he felt that he didn’t deserve it. Puffy, who, in her soft way, managed to make his deepest insecurities feel so much more like ridiculous ideas. 

And, just as Tommy was starting to believe that he could keep something good, it was all ripped away again. All he could think, when Dream slammed him into the obsidian wall, was that he had only just begun to want to live again. As his ribs cracked and he screamed desperately for Sam, Phil, Tubbo, _anybody_ , he could only think of the unfairness of it all. Dream slammed his head into the floor, with a sickening crunch, and Tommy’s vision blurred and faded, as he took ragged, shortened breaths. 

He wasn’t quite relieved to die, but he was glad that he could, at least, stop plaguing the world, with his existence. The last things he heard, before he died, was Dream’s insane laughter and his own failing heart. He couldn’t wait to see Wilbur again.

* * *

Tommy was buried on a Tuesday. It was a bright, warm day and, as much as the mourners wanted to think it a mocking warmth, it felt fitting. Tommy never liked the cold much. It still felt as though he might come sprinting around the nearest corner at any moment, away from whatever trouble he had managed to get himself into. Instead, his broken, mangled body was lying still and silent in a coffin.

Flowers, planted by Ranboo, had made the land more beautiful than it had looked in years. Tommy’s house had become something of a memorial; covered from the top of the roof, to the yard around it, in flowers, red and white. Puffy had built a beautiful, little tribute to Tommy nearby; sweet, or funny, pictures of Tommy and his friends were hung on it.

Tommy was buried in Snowchester. It seemed only fitting. His home had always been by Tubbo’s side, so there he was lowered into the earth. There were no speeches, this time, no words spoken. They merely stood and watched, as the coffin was covered with dirt and returned to the earth. Sam broke down first, overwhelming guilt and pain shining clear in his eyes. Puffy was next to break. Then Ranboo. 

Tubbo didn’t cry for a long time. He felt numb, as he watched his best friend leave him forever. It couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t. He was still waiting for someone, _anyone_ , to say that it was all a prank, that it was all some cruel joke. Nobody did any such thing. Sam left, eventually, and so did Puffy. Tubbo stayed seated on the bench, staring over the grave at the ocean beyond it.

Ranboo sat next to him and Tubbo leaned his head on the other’s shoulder. A small, white and black bird perched on the gravestone and twittered serenely. Everything seemed so peaceful, even though nothing would ever be right again. The bird was joined by another and they chirped happily, as though they weren’t standing over the grave of a child.

The first tears Tubbo had shed, since hearing of Tommy’s death, finally forced themselves out of his eyes. He sniffled once, twice, and then he was dissolving into tears that came from so deep within him that his entire body shook with the force of them. He clung to Ranboo, like a lifeline, and the enderman hybrid clung back, his own tears blinding him.

Tubbo didn’t stop sobbing, until the sun had gone down and, even then, he only stopped because he had no tears left. He stared at the grave and the flowers planted on top of it that would surely sprout in no time at all. His best friend, his whole world, was gone, but life kept going. Tubbo had a country to run, a _child_ to take care of. 

He would do Tommy much more good, by keeping his memory alive. He would keep his pictures up on the most prominent wall; he would never let Tommy’s life fade into legend, as long as he lived. Tubbo would make sure that Michael would always know who Uncle Tommy was and why he was so important, the same way he was told stories of Uncle Wilbur.

Because, after all, that’s the best anyone can do for the dead. Grieving is important, but so is keeping them alive in the memories of everyone who knew them. It’s important not to let them fade into obscurity. And that’s exactly what the citizens of the server did for Schlatt, for Wilbur, for Tommy. For good, or for evil, the dead of this server would never be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments/bookmarks are always very cool of you all! *coughs* comments in particular, would be really appreciated for this fic in particular *coughs*
> 
> It’s the way that I’m not a Schlatt apologist, or sympathizer, but still managed to make myself emotional about him, for me. And don’t get me started on how emotional the other two made me lmao


End file.
